Forgotten
by Anney
Summary: He stands outside in cold weather and thinks about thing he had thought long forgotten. Yohjicentric.


_Title:_ Forgotten  
_Author:_ Anney  
_Disclaimer:_ Not mine  
_A/N:_ Yohji-centric. I can be reached at anneyunderscorekun2 at yahoo dot com if needed.  
_Word count (at livejournal):_ 716  
_Summary:_ He stands outside in cold weather and thinks about thing he had thought long forgotten. 

Every thing he remembers is a feeling that passes over his skin like the shiver of cold air in winter. The melting snow under his feet as he leans against the bars of the balcony at night with a burning stick of cancer held loose in a fist held out above the world. If he opened his hand there would be eyes turned to see where the fiery ash had come from when it made it's impact on the body walking by below. It's early morning late night and while most people are asleep he stands outside in cold weather and thinks about things he had thought long forgotten.

He can remember how her shoulders would turn from pale white to light tan in the summer from long days of just watching people for payment. He hair held off her neck in a sloppy mess clipped to the back of her head in loops and twists that only girls can manage to apply. She was all sleek body muscle with smooth skin crossed over with small scars from living. The thing he loved the most about her was that she was alive in a city full of people just playing pretend.

There are talks about how he grew up, what made him the way he is whispered in girlish voices behind his back. How he can't be all Japanese because, have you seen those eyes? That hair? The tall lean body the screams of foreigner. Whipcord lean lanky arms, long legs, he's beautiful in all his non-Japanese glory that is just a fluke of genetics. He thinks his grandfather might have been American, but he spoke Japanese like one born to it, knew all the manners and customs and the only thing that marked him as not being native was the hair, and the eyes, and the height, and the booming voice that always seemed to rock him back on his feet when he heard it. He's dead now, body burned and tossed into the air mixed in with the woman he married and had children with.

He's named after his grandfather's best friend that helped his mother into womanhood with soft touches and sly glances; secrets kept out in the open for everyone to know about and ignore. He looks like his grandfather from twenty years ago with different hands and feet. He shares a name with a man he'll never know because now they've both been dead for years and years. Only he kept being alive after he died and the other man didn't.

The sky becomes lighter, the colored fingers of sunrise spreading across the land and now the city below wakes up into the morning rush of working days. He watches the ant like people scurry off into middle class jobs leaving their middle class wives to wake up their middle class children for middle class school and the middle class circle goes on and on around and around and he flicks ash from his hand to rain down upon their heads from his perch so high above them.

He'll walk downstairs in a few hours and cover himself in a smiles and apron, he'll sell dead and dying flowers to middle class girls so they can hang young girl dreams on petals that will fall into death only days after purchase. Flowers are the prettiest death he's ever seen. Full bloomed wilting brown curls of death sitting so artfully arranged in vases cleverly placed throughout the store. He'll breath in the smell of gorgeous death and young girls and once night falls he'll sneak into a place that's heavily unguarded and spill copper tinged blood over gloved fingers and think of his grandfather's hands that had been wide hands of support.

His own hands are slender and criss crossed with silver baby scars spread across his fingers from where wire cut through gloves that weren't thick enough for protection. It was a period of trail and error to find the right balance between thick enough protection and thin enough feeling. Nicks and pricks left in slivers of remembrance in his hands. He has his mother's hands.

He goes on living his life after death and thinks that it's some kind of poetry that all he does in his undeath is kill.

(end)


End file.
